


Significant

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Image, Dom!Cas, Hand Feeding, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Sub!Dean, refractory periods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith's and Castiel's unconventional morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Significant

**Author's Note:**

> previously untitled, now titled

Upon waking, Dean Smith knows he’s not in his own bed. The sheets he’s laying in are coarser than his, the pillow is lumpy, and there’s a spring digging into his spine. It’s horribly uncomfortable. Factoring the alcohol-induced headache pulsing inside his skull and the grossness of his body, the morning has all the makings of a foul mood.

But when Dean opens his eyes, he finds himself overlooking all of that.

He wasn’t drunk enough to forget everything about last night by a long shot. He knows whose home he was invited to, knows what they did, knows all the important details. Still, seeing the man is a shock. _This_ is the man who took Dean home. _This man._

His hair is dark and scruffy and needs a morning shower, but it has that just-fucked look about it that Dean doesn’t want to wash away, no matter how unhygienic. A careless stubble mats his jaw; Dean can still feel the light scrape of it between his thighs, a phantom reminder of last night. The man’s shapely lips wrap around a thin cigarette, his cheeks sinking as he breathes in. He’s completely naked and also completely unabashed by this fact, and for a yoga instructor and weed smoker, he has an admirable physique.

He’s a far cry from Dean’s normal type - that is, successful and well-groomed - although he is attractive and by far the best Dean’s had. The way he knew Dean wanted to relinquish control and not be forced to give it up, the way he made Dean’s pleasure his first priority, the way he seemed to know exactly which button to press, as if he’s pressed them before….

Cas’ quiet cough interrupts Dean’s thoughts before they can drift much farther. Dean blinks up.

“Uh… morning,” Dean manages. He hasn’t had many one-night stands, and even he winces at his morning after etiquette. Although, if he’s reading Cas accurately, the other man is either apathetic, just as ignorant as Dean, or both.

“Morning.” Cas raises his eyes from his cigarette and locks his gaze with Dean; his eyes are red, but that doesn’t mask the intensity of his irises. He lifts the blunt to Dean. “Would you like to partake?”

Hiding his grimace as best he can, Dean declines. It’s bad enough that he’s still feeling bloated from all the extra calories alcohol gave him last night; the last thing he needs at the moment is for marijuana to reduce him to an indolent slacker with the munchies.

“Your loss,” Cas says with a shrug. “It really helps with the hangover headache.” He brings the end to his lips, inhales, exhales. When he speaks again, after another cough, his voice is throatier. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean shakes his head again. “No, man. You do what you want. I’m just not into it.”

Cas nods. “I should thank you for being so tolerant. Surprisingly, you’re the first man I’ve taken home in quite some time not to leave immediately or demand I put it out.”

“You don’t usually go for the like-minded hippie type, then?” Dean asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I brought you home, didn’t I?”

That answers Dean’s question. He doesn’t think he can say he’s Cas’ polar opposite - he thinks he’d have to be much more truculent for that - but he’s pretty close: Cas is a man of simple pleasures and means while Dean buys the latest technologies as soon as they come out; Cas does what he pleases when he pleases and doesn’t take crap from anybody when he does it, and Dean, on the other hand, makes plans meticulously and worries about his self-image.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks for that.”

Taking a drag of his blunt, Cas makes an ambiguous gesture. “They’re too imperturbable, anyway, the ‘like-minded hippies’, as you say.”

“Going straight for the hundred dollar words?”

“They don’t respond well,” Cas goes on, but he gives Dean’s commentary a smile. Then, his expression goes dreamy. “Not like you do.”

And doesn’t that just make Dean’s stomach go aflutter. He averts his eyes from Cas’, not able to hold that meaningful gaze.

Since he wasn’t able to get a proper view of it last night, preoccupied with other things, Dean looks around the room. Now, in the haze and the morning light streaming through the open window, Dean can see a dresser and an overflowing shelf of books, the titles on which range anywhere from _Argonautica_ to _Zen in the Art of Writing_ , the latter which Dean nods in approval at. Other than that, there isn’t much to see of Cas’ bedroom.

“Nice place you got,” Dean comments.

“It’s sufficient,” Cas says. “I like it. My landlord is fairly lax. To be honest, though, I think he smokes his own fair share of herb in his spare time.”

Lovely. Dean smiles at Cas. “I’m guessing there’s a washroom around here? Somewhere I can freshen up?”

Cas waves behind him, out the door. “I don’t own any closets, so it shouldn’t be that difficult to find.”

Indeed, Dean finds the washroom immediately. It’s a cramped room fitted with only the necessities. There isn’t even so much as a carpet to furnish the place, to keep Dean’s feet from freezing. He ignores the chill for the time being in favor of cleaning the sticky mess from last night’s activities from between his legs. Once he’s finished, he examines himself in the mirror. The dark circles beneath his eyes he’s tried to treat with extra sleep and cucumber slices have faded to a lighter shadow. His cheeks are pink, emphasizing his freckles. His hair is a little greasy and unkempt from sleep, but he can cope with it until he gets back to his apartment, and his face is oily. He can only see one hickey on his body, sucked onto his shoulder, and Dean is glad he was clearheaded enough last night to tell Cas about his marking rule. Dean loves getting marked up, but he can’t exactly go into work a walking canvas of purple bruises for all to see.

He splashes some warm water onto his face and pats himself dry with the lavender towel on the rung behind him. His entire face is even pinker now. He waits for it to clear before stepping out, intent on returning to the bedroom for his clothes, but the scent of pancakes and fruit distracts him.

Cas turns from his stove to look at Dean, still standing in the washroom’s doorway with his nose tipped up, sniffing.

“Took you long enough,” Cas says. He’s wearing a large, dark shirt to cover his torso from splattering oil, and Dean realizes that his own midsection is exposed, the pudge of it like a balloon half inflated inside of his stomach. He sucks in his gut and doesn’t think Cas noticed either his true size or his cover-up. “I hope you’re in the mood for pancakes.”

Dean can smell the refined sugar and flour, the fats; he can feel the toxins rising onto his skin, turning it even oilier than it is, can feel his stomach inflating more and hardening (as well as burbling with want), the calories building up. But he can’t stop himself from approaching Cas and the stove.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Dean says, more to himself than to Cas. His stomach has another thought, though; it growls at him loudly enough that Cas hears over the sizzling batter.

“It sounds like you should,” Cas says. He motions to a steaming pyramid of pancakes already made. “I’ve made enough to feed an army. I can’t eat it all alone.”

“No, I really shouldn’t,” repeats Dean, but he can feel his own resolve crumbling as he speaks. His mouth waters, eyes locked on the pancake stack. The last time he had something as substantial as pancakes for breakfast must have been during college. Most days now, if Dean eats breakfast at all, he blends kale, apples, dates, water, and chlorella into a thin liquid, and he’ll sip it on his way to work. “I’ve got a diet to stick to,” Dean says, equally to himself and to Cas. “You can’t get a body like this eating refined foods.”

“You need to eat, Dean. God knows what sort of diet food you’ve limited yourself to.”

“Hey, it’s not all bad,” Dean retorts weakly. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at the dirty floor. “Those flax crackers are pretty good.”

“A man cannot subsist on flax crackers,” Cas says. “Tell me, when was the last time you ate and felt satisfied after?”

_The Thanksgiving of my senior college year_. As if that dinner occurred last week instead of a half a decade ago, the scent of it overwhelms Dean. Turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, dense bread, cranberries, spiced apples, green beans, toasted walnuts and pecans, pumpkin pie - all homemade, warm, and satisfying. Ellen spared no expense to feed her family, especially on a day practically created to eat as much as possible. The memory of her washes homesickness over Dean. That was the last Thanksgiving Ellen had. What would have happened if it hadn’t been? Would Dean be thinking back so far to recollect a good meal?

“It’s been a while,” Cas surmises, Dean too lost in the memory to remember to reply. He shakes his head to clear it and makes an agreeing noise.

Cas recaptures Dean’s gaze. His expression is softer now, but no less determined. “Let me feed you,” Cas says. “One breakfast will not destroy your body, Dean. Not even a year’s worth of pancakes and butter can do that.”

He’s wrong. One capitulation is only the precursor for many to come. If Dean eats these pancakes now, he’ll be in the mind to allow even more lenience, and that will kill his image.

But how delicious will that capitulation be?

Dean’s mouth waters. Just the once. He has enough self-discipline not to go back to destructive eating habits. He’ll have to clock in extra hours at the gym this week, which means sacrificing work time, but if he gets to eat Cas’ pancakes with Cas… it’ll be worth it.

Cas is still watching him, waiting for an answer. Dean gives a tiny nod, and Cas beams at him. The pancakes aren’t the only thing he’s indulging in this morning, Dean realizes; Cas’ smiles are a different kind of luxury, but one all the same.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says. The next thing Dean knows, a metal bowl of sugared blackberries is thrust into his hands and Cas is ordering, “Take these to the couch. I’ll join you in a moment. These pancakes won’t be much longer.”

Obediently, Dean takes the bowl across the room. Stains of all color blemish the thread-worn couch, and it smells foul. Dean sits gingerly on the cushion that looks the cleanest and places the blackberries on the coffee table. The couch’s fabric is thin but scratchy against his naked bottom, and the cushion is lumpy. He shifts for a more comfortable position, but isn’t able to find it before Cas appears, shirtless now, with the mountain of pancakes, sets them beside the blackberries, and sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean.

“What, no forks?” Dean says.

Cas shake his head. “I don’t own flatware. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Pancakes aren’t exactly finger foods, Cas,” Dean responds. “Not even a knife? Really?”

“Really,” Cas says plainly. He is not joking. His hand touches Dean’s back gently. “You might be more comfortable on the ground.”

Without a second thought, Dean finds himself sinking to the coarse carpet, legs folded beneath him and hands in his lap. Staring up at Cas’ satisfied smile, Dean swallows. His chin is only a couple of inches from Cas’ knee.

“Good boy,” praises Cas. He cradles Dean’s cheek in a warm, large hand, and Dean leans into it, eyes fluttering and chest feeling like it’s glowing. The admiration and touch trickle a slow desire to please through him; he needs to prove himself worthy of that praise, he needs to hear it again. Another hand brushes through his hair and pulls a groan from him. “You’re a good boy, Dean. Thank you for allowing me this.”

“Allowing… you…?” The question is halfhearted; Dean is too easily distracted by the light scratch of nails on his scalp and the removal of the palm on his cheek. “Cas-?”

“Open up, Dean,” Cas orders.

Confused, Dean first opens his eyes and sees a torn piece of pancake dipped in blackberry mash before him. “Cas?” Dean asks again, this time more lucidly. He looks up from the offering to Cas and finds his expression patient and gentle. 

“Open your mouth,” Cas clarifies, and Dean submits unquestioningly. Cas smiles at him with approval. “That’s it, Dean. Here.”

The hand with the pancake moves closer to Dean’s mouth, and Dean finally connects the dots. Cas wants to… feed him. As strange as the request is, Dean can’t deny the new want that floods through him. There’s a difference between feeding himself and having another person - Cas - feed him. This is a kind of submission; this is having someone else take care of him.

Dean’s worries fade away as he opens his mouth further. Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s for a moment, his expression melting even further, then his gaze drops back to Dean’s mouth just in time to watch Dean’s lips wrap around his fingers and the pancake.

The light, fluffy cake falls onto Dean’s tongue, still hot from cooking, and Cas' fingers slip out. Bright berries burst on his taste buds. He bites through the food and swallows when he can. Cas’ fingers are still in front of him, purple and crumby, and before Dean can stop himself, he’s surging upwards to bring Cas’ digits into his mouth and moaning around them, which makes Cas’ hold in his hair tighten. It’s been years since Dean ate anything that wasn’t tasteless diet food, and as good as the pancakes themselves are, licking and sucking every crumb of them from Cas’ fingers tastes even more divine.

Cas pulls his hand away with a pop before Dean’s finished, and Dean whines in irritation as he outstretches to try and reclaim those fingers, but Cas denies him by gripping Dean’s hair hard. With a wince, Dean drops back onto his heels. His cheeks burn and his head is lowered, chastised and embarrassed over how eager he is.

“You’re enjoying this much more than I thought you would,” Cas remarks. Dean looks up to see Cas’ baffled but delighted expression. “Most people do this just to humor me. Not many react the way you do. You caught me off guard; I apologize.” He combs his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean furrows his eyebrows. “You’ve done this with other people?” he asks, and suddenly there’s a sour taste in his mouth and his stomach is churning. This was supposed to be special; Dean felt special. He should have known better.

Cas’ eyes widen, seeing Dean’s hurt and jealous expression. “Oh, no, Dean,” Cas says. He pets Dean’s head with such tenderness that Dean almost believes in the illusion again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Dean agrees. The moment is spoiled now. Dean would rather have been ignorant of Cas’ previous partners and let this one-night-and-morning stand be unmarred.

He’s being unreasonable. Cas said he had other partners, so it would make sense that Cas would do this with them, too. But somehow this is different from sex. It’s different the same way there’s a difference between Dean feeding himself and Cas feeding him.

Hurt and jealousy still want to cling to Dean, despite their irrationality. Dean does his best to disregard them and meet Cas’ stare again, chin tilted up.

“It’s fine,” Dean shrugs off. He’s nothing special, but he does like letting Cas take care of him, and Cas likes doing that. Dean wants the illusion back. “We can go back to the hand feeding thing.”

Unexpectedly, Cas doesn’t reach for the pancake platter again; instead, he goes for Dean’s cheek. His fingers, still wet from Dean’s mouth, rest against Dean’s ear.

“You wanted to feel special,” Cas observes, and Dean does his best not to cringe at the embarrassing truth. He averts his eyes from Cas’ perceptive blues, but Cas will not have that; he tips Dean’s head until Dean is staring back at him again. Dean swallows hard, throat bared. “Dean, you are special.”

Dean is about to roll his eyes and scoff when Cas holds tight to his hair again, making him gasp.

“Don’t fight me on this,” Cas orders. Whatever words Dean was about to say dissipate, and instead of finding them, he stares up at the receding vehemence in Cas’ expression until the calm is there again. Seeing Dean obedient to his command, Cas smiles. “Good boy.”

Dean takes a breath, closes his eyes, and smiles naturally back. He likes being praised.

“Open your mouth,” Cas says. When Dean peers open his eyes, he sees another ripped pancake that’s been dunked in the blackberry mash. He complies, and Cas guides the cake between Dean’s lips once more. To Dean’s annoyance, the palm on his cheek lifts off when he starts chewing.

“It’s harder than it looks, using just one hand,” Cas says in way of an apology. He tears another portion of pancake, submerges it completely in the sauce, and tips his head back to let it fall from his fingers and into his waiting jaws. Licking his lips, Cas grins down at Dean. “My fingers are dirty.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, voice low. He licks his lips, and Cas’ smile softens.

“You really are something else,” he comments, giving Dean his digits to lap as if they were an ice cream pop. Dean winds his tongue around to the backside once the pads are clean, and Cas laughs amusedly at his enthusiasm. “Now stop. I need to feed you more.”

Dean backs off and waits impatiently while Cas dips the last fourth of the pancake into the blackberries. “You gonna try ‘n get me fat, then?” he asks, unsure if he’s being teasing or cautious. He can’t gain weight, he needs to keep his figure, his image -

“I want to care for you,” Cas replies and gives Dean the pancake, shutting him up for the time being. Dean was raised better than to talk with his mouth full. “If that means you’ve put on a couple more pounds than you came here with, so be it. It doesn’t matter to me. You are not only your skin and muscle and fat, though I must admit that part of you is beautiful as well; you are your soul, and that is the most attractive and significant thing about you.”

_Attractive. Significant._ The words ping around Dean’s head, lighting up an endless pyrotechnic display inside of him. He preens and feels the words soar through his veins. Cas grins at him.

Cas’ hand brushes down to Dean’s shoulder, curling around the bone and squeezing. The touch makes Dean realize how naked they both are and yet how ordinary it is and how unself-conscious he feels. He has no urge to hide the parts about himself he doesn’t like: his bulging stomach, his perpetually dry elbows, the stretch marks on his back that he hasn’t gotten rid of (not for lack of trying) since puberty, the fact that his left pectoral is larger than the right. Upon realizing this, he immediately wants to suck his stomach in, but only out of habit and not out of any need to hide himself. Being with Cas is natural, and so Dean is natural, too. Cas likes Dean just as he is.

He breathes in through his nose and lets his breath expand his belly. It feels freeing.

If Cas notices the change Dean feels, he doesn’t remark on it. He offers Dean another bite of food, and Dean takes it without hesitation. Cas’ fingers brush against his bottom lip, dragging it down until his fingers have no more purchase and Dean’s lip pulls back up of its own accord, and Dean starts chewing again.

Together, wordlessly, Dean and Cas eat the mountain of pancakes, bite by bite. Dean’s body is warm with satisfaction, and he feels sated but not fat or repulsed at himself. Though he’s full, he has no intention of stopping Cas from feeding him until either there is no more pancakes or Dean has reached his limit. If it wasn’t for Cas, Dean would’ve stopped at two pancakes, but he thinks he’s eaten at least ten by now.

He’s thankful that it’s Saturday and that Cas hasn’t made any indications that Dean’s overstaying his welcome. Dean doesn’t want to go anywhere; kneeling beside Cas is the most comfortable he’s been in a long time, and he sleeps on a memory foam mattress fitted with Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count of one thousand.

Another portion passes his lips, and Dean feels uninhibited enough that he hasn’t finished chewing when he speaks. He doesn’t even mean to speak, but the words spill out of him anyway, and in his contented state, he is unable to stop them or care about them.

“You know… I think I could get used to this.”

Cas’ eyebrows raise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Me too,” Cas says, smiling. He feeds Dean, then helps himself, sauce daubing his lips. Dean watches, captivated, as Cas licks the smear clean, his purpled tongue lapping at the spot and his stained teeth grazing the spot after. Dean’s own mouth must be a similar color, perhaps even worse because Cas has been feeding him more than himself, even though Cas totally has the power to disregard Dean. Cas hesitates for a moment. “I’d like to see you after today.”

Dean is nodding before Cas is even finished his sentence. “Yeah. See you, hear you, taste you….” Cas’ knee is mere inches from Dean, so Dean leans forward to kiss it, eyes never leaving Cas'.

Cas grabs Dean’s hands in his sticky ones, and they stand up together. As if they’ve never held his weight before, Dean’s legs wobble into the momentum and, subsequently, Cas, who grins almost too largely to kiss Dean properly.

But kiss Dean he does, and by heaven is it a good kiss. Cas tastes like blackberries and pancakes and sugar, and as full as Dean is, he is still hungry for Cas. He doesn’t think he will ever be sated.

He feels along the chaps in Cas’ lips. Hands still clasped together, Cas draws their arms up so they’re extended fully like wings, ready for flight. They’re pressed closer than ever before; Dean swears he feels Cas’ heart racing beside his own.

It isn’t even about sex, even though he feels Cas gaining interest, which Dean is grateful for. He wouldn’t mind having intercourse with Cas again - there’s no doubt about that - but….

Cas pulls away from the kiss to explore Dean’s eyes, lowering their arms. His pupils are dilated, and his cheeks are flushed, but despite his clear arousal, Cas is clearly concerned. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean deflects quickly. He banishes all his thoughts; they’re getting in the way of him memorizing Cas’ mouth. “I like kissing you. Can we get back to that?”

“Of course,” Cas replies, but he doesn’t kiss Dean again. “You just seem distracted.”

Dean can’t deny that. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Cas says, still frowning and not kissing Dean. He looks down at the lack of distance - and the lack of Dean’s arousal - between them and pulls his hips away. “Are you….”

Dean blushes with shame, his ears burning hot. He casts his gaze away from Cas. “It’s just kissing, Cas. Not everyone gets off on just that.”

Cas clearly isn’t satisfied with his answer. “I understand that, but… from the way you’ve responded to affection earlier, I thought….” He takes a deep breath. “Never mind what I thought. It’s ridiculous of me to presume to know so much of you.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been spot-on every time,” Dean says. “It’s freaky; it’s like you’ve known me forever.”

That makes Cas smile. “That’s how many great relationships begin,” he says, playing with Dean’s fingers. “I wish I have known you that long. I wish I could be with you for all of time, and even that wouldn’t be long enough.”

For such a heavy declaration, Cas says it as nonchalantly as one would report the weather. Dean’s blown away with shock, but he can’t deny similar thoughts and longings swimming in his head.

“You know, we’ve only just met each other,” Dean says.

“That doesn’t change what I feel.”

Dean looks away from Cas for a moment, takes a breath and exhales, “Yeah.” He blinks, and the sight of Cas hasn’t changed except for a small smile at Dean’s admission. “But, um.” How does he explain this? And what will Cas think of him? This is one of the reasons Dean has never been in a long-term relationship, although he won’t admit it to anyone; he’ll blame his sorry dating history on having too much work, instead, because it’s easier and less humiliating than _this_.

He can still hear his first boyfriend howling about it. Alastair broke up with him as soon as his laughing fit subsided, ten minutes later. Even when the information spread through the school’s gossip mill and Dean was made the laughingstock of the school, he never felt so humiliated than when he and Alastair were alone together and Alastair was laughing at him.

Now, his face is still burning with embarrassment, and Cas isn't getting any less concerned. Dean worries his bottom lip.

“It’s me,” he says at last. “Little me in particular. Not because _I_ don't want to, but he doesn’t, um...”

Dean looks up and is shocked by Cas’ smile. It’s not a scorning smile, but a relieved one.

“Dean, it’s okay,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hand. “That’s normal, and it’s not your fault.”

Dean huffs. “Tell that to the other guys.”

He doesn’t mean to say that. Cas inhales and then closes his mouth to grind his teeth together, the bolt of his jaw flexing angrily. He looks like he’s thinking about following Dean’s thoughtless suggestion with fists, so Dean tugs Cas’ arm gently to bring him back to the present.

“That wasn’t meant to be a literal suggestion,” he says.

“Nevertheless, I wish I could…” Cas trails off, the threat remaining vague. He clears his head. “They shouldn’t have told you that.”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe not.”

“ _Definitely_ not.”

Dean can’t help the quick grin that flashes across his face at Cas’ protectiveness. He shouldn’t find that so endearing or assuring, but he does. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a couple more hours. I’ll probably be ready by lunch.”

“There’s no rush,” Cas says. “Absolutely none.” He kisses Dean, lingering and sweet.

A weight has been lifted from Dean’s shoulders and a corset restraining his lungs has been cut off. He breathes in deeply the earthy and warm scent of Cas and the lingering scent of the pancakes they ate together.

"Thanks."


End file.
